


Call Time

by AkitaFallow



Category: Supernatural
Genre: (of a sort), Epistolary, POV Second Person, Pre-Series, Stanford Era, What-If
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-27
Updated: 2014-05-27
Packaged: 2018-01-26 17:33:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1696613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AkitaFallow/pseuds/AkitaFallow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A phone is the only thing that connects them, and they're okay with that. Sometimes, though, it's just not enough. </p><p>Or: The story that ended before it ever began.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Call Time

**Author's Note:**

  * For [NefarioussNess](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NefarioussNess/gifts).



The phone arrives in the mail three days after you’ve settled into your dorm room. You pull it out with trepidation, until you see the small note attached to the front of the touchscreen. _Fancy college boy should have a fancy phone,_ it reads, in writing that’s so familiar you’d be able to mimic it in your sleep. There’s one contact already programmed into it, and you feel a stirring of something like exasperated affection as you tuck it into your pocket.

 

* * *

 

“Hey, Sammy.”

“It’s _Sam_ ,” you insist, but you’re smiling anyway. He can’t see you, after all.

 

* * *

 

Thursday evenings become your regularly scheduled call time. Your roommate smiles indulgently every time you answer the phone, pleased to see you interacting. He’s worried about you, but he understands how hard it is to move away from one’s family for the first time. Maybe a little brotherly influence will be what gets you out into the social scene properly.

 

* * *

 

“Dad says it’s a shifte—”

“If you think it’s not, then maybe it’s not, Dean. Dad’s not omniscient and maybe he’s wrong.”

“He knows more about this stuff than either of us combined, so if he says it’s—”

“And he’s never wrong, is that it?”

“Hey, why you gotta get your panties in a twist about this? I swear, Sammy, when it comes to Dad you always assume the worst possible scenario.”

You can feel the fire rising. “Maybe because he’s given me no reason to assume anything _else_? Maybe because he never had one _single good thing_ to say to me, so why should I for him? Maybe because he told me to get out and never come back because I wanted to go to goddamn _school_! And if you weren’t so busy being his other more perfect son, you’d notice that maybe rainbows don’t actually fly out of his ass!”

It’s the first time you hang up on him.

The next time he calls, two weeks later, he doesn’t mention it. As if nothing happened.

 

* * *

 

One of your friends finds your gun in the fake book above your desk during a group studying session. You laugh uncomfortably at their questions, hoping they’ll just let it drop. “A gift from my brother for my birthday,” you explain abashedly, not specifying _which_ birthday exactly.

“What, he expecting you to get mugged in an alley or something?”

You shrug. “Never hurts to be prepared.”

You carefully ignore Suzanne’s whisper to James about over-protectiveness.

 

* * *

 

“Congrats on finishing your first year, Sammy. Knew you were good at pretending to be smart.”

“Shut up, Dean.”

“Bitch.”

“Jerk.”

 

* * *

 

Every week becomes every second. Then every third. Then whenever you find the time, or he’s feeling particularly chatty. You tell yourself it’s because you’ve joined the fraternity, and you’re busy studying to stay at the top of your class.

He always answers as if it’s only been a few days, and your long distance minutes each month are down by a tenth. It’s not really a bad thing. Not really.

 

* * *

 

“Hello?”

“Hello, this is Saint Joseph Hospital in Lexington, Kentucky. Am I speaking to… Sammy Wilson?”

It takes a second. “Uh… Yeah, yeah, it’s Sam.”

“Are you the next-of-kin of Dean Wilson?”

“…Yes. How did you get this number?”

“Mr. Wilson was recently admitted to our hospital and we were able to find your contact in his phone, as he had no other records. What is your relation to him?”

“I’m his brother. What happened?”

“It looks like a hit-and-run; broken arm, bruising, and a moderate concussion. He’s expected to make a full recovery.”

“That… that’s good.”

“…Can we expect your arrival at any time?”

You look at the calendar, at the red _Exam II_ scrawled over Friday’s box. “Uh… I’m halfway across the country, and my dad’s in the area. He’ll show up. But thank you for letting me know.”

“Not a problem, Mr. Wilson. Have a good day.”

You tell yourself he’s had worse. You don’t wonder if your father will actually show. You _don’t._

 

* * *

 

Jessica is the most beautiful woman you’ve ever seen (and maybe you’re biased but whatever, it’s okay for things like this), and you’re never sure how you got to be so lucky as to have her. Josh is unbearably smug for having been the “initiator of love immemorial, a bond so strong that only Hell itself could rip it apart.”

Thursday becomes date night.

 

* * *

 

“I swear to God, Sam, if you don’t go out with that smokin’ hot girlfriend of yours for Halloween and dress up with some kind of sick cutesy couple thing, I’m gonna come and hunt your ass down. If I’m supposed to live vicariously through you, then you’re sure as hell gonna make sure you have a good time.”

“Vicarious living usually takes a bit more knowledge of the other party. You’ve heard about her what, once?”

“Hey now, you gotta give me something to work with here, Sammy—”

“It’s _Sam_.”

“—and it’s not like I can just pop over there and see for myself.”

“There’s nothing stopping you.”

“…Don’t think college is ready for me, kid. A lady’s man of my calibre? None of you geeky boys would have a chance.”

“It’s only—”

“ ’Sides, we’re on the path of a Black Dog, and Dad thinks we’ll have it pinned down tomorrow—”

“What about after that?”

“I dunno, Sammy, who knows what’ll come up?”

“You mean Dad will never give you permission.”

“Hey, that’s not what I said—”

“But it’s what you _meant._ God, Dean, can you scratch your own ass without his permission?”

“I’m not gettin’ into this discussion with you, Sam.”

“Well maybe you should _listen_ for once in your life to someone other than your drill sergeant—”

The line is dead.

Not uncommon anymore.

 

* * *

 

You don’t even feel the phone vibrating in your pocket as you’re running to your third class. Later, when you look at your messages, you unthinkingly delete it without listening because it’s from an area code you don’t recognize.

You’re not expecting a call—and all your friends are programmed into the phone, after all.

You forget that a hunter’s life isn’t particularly kind to cell phones. You never get to hear the ‘I’m-torn-up-but-don’t-want-you-to-know’ tone in his voice as he tries to tell you that he just needs someone to talk to, because that kid hadn’t deserved what that werewolf did to her (and he can’t help but think _what if it had been you_ ).

 

* * *

 

“Yeah, I’d say I’m pretty happy."

“That’s good."

“Yeah.”

“…Well. Merry Christmas, Sammy.”

“You too.”

 

* * *

 

It’s been a year. Six months ago, you replaced the phone after an unfortunate meeting with a puddle in the parking lot. It was probably about time, anyway. The new plan has a bit of broadband, so it’s nice. The SIM card was fried, so you have to collect all your contacts again, the old fashioned way. It’s actually kind of fun.

It’s been a year since you spoke to him, but you somehow don’t notice.

 

* * *

 

“You know, in almost two years I've never bothered you, never asked you for a thing.”

You sigh. “I can’t, Dean. I have my interview on Monday—”

“For what?”

“Law school. I got a good score on my LSAT—”

“Wait, your what?”

“It’s a huge test, and I studied my ass off for it. I can’t drop it for a single hunt. Look, if Dad was looking into it, then it’s probably already taken care of.”

“So now you trust him?”

“I trust him with _hunting_.”

“Oh, so you think everything _else_ is the problem.”

You throw your hands in the air and resist the urge to punch him in that pretty-boy face of his. “I think that I’m not going to throw my life away to go and do something that doesn’t need my help!”

“It’s two days, tops! If you did so well on that test, I’m sure they’ll wait for you on the impossible chance that you’re a little late.”

“They’re the ones who schedule the interviews, and they turn down people every year, no matter what potential they have. This is my chance to actually _do_ something.”

“What, like you’ve been doing the past four years? Sitting around here, trying to pretend you’re normal?”

“Why are we even talking about this, Dean? I told you I can’t help. You and Dad have been fine by yourselves so far, and I happen to _like_ my _pretend-normal_ life! I left hunting for a _reason_. It sucks you in no matter what you do, and I don’t want that again!”

His fists clench and unclench. “So that’s your final answer? No?”

You grit your teeth. “Final answer.”

He looks away, and his jaw works. “Well. Nice talkin’ to ya, Sam.”

The Impala kicks up dust as it peels away down the alley.

 

* * *

 

You never know how much he cares. You never think he will feel anything more than anger and abandonment. You think he’ll be like your dad—think he’ll tell you to get out of his life and never come back.

You never know how proud he really is for you, deep underneath all of the masks of _disappointment_ and _loneliness_ and ‘ _Dad’s doing his best by us, Sam!’_ It’s the part of him that makes his heart fly with joy when you show him your acceptance letter, and makes him want to cheer when you slam the door behind you after that final exchange of words with your father. It’s the part that makes him take the photocopy he’s made of the letter—how he does it is anyone’s guess—and fold it into the inner pocket of his favourite jacket, where it will be stained by blood on three different occasions and ripped nearly in half twice. But each time he unfolds it and carefully re-inks the letters where they are fading and tapes the battered edges back together, and only when it’s looking new— as new as a well-read and much-abused piece of paper can look—will he then try to patch up the jacket that you swear he values almost as much as his car.

You never know how much he smiles when he tells anyone—his bar-mates, his fellow hunters, his clients, even his one-night stands—about his little brother, the big-shot up-and-coming lawyer, _head of his class, Sammy is, magna cum laude and all that shit, got a free ride at Stanford. God, that kid’s a genius, I tell you._ How he checks the Dean’s List every semester to make sure you’re still where he knows you’ll be, right at the very top. How he raises a glass every time he’s out and gives you a silent salute that he’d never actually say to your face.

You never know, because you never bother to ask. And that’s your first mistake.

 

* * *

 

In the call he never makes, he says, “ _I think I’m dyin’, Sammy. Kinda stupid way to go, but whatever. Glad you don’t gotta see this. I’m… I’m proud of you, kid. …So make sure you… g’t into that dumb-ass law school, kay? An’ say hi to y’r fancy girlfrien’. …..Love ya, Sammy.”_

 

* * *

 

You stare up in horror at the flames spreading from your fiancée’s body on the ceiling, scream her name as she burns and the room turns bright red and yellow and orange, raise your hand towards her like you’re trying to pluck her from the center.

But this time there’s no one to pull you out of the fire.

 

 

_**FIN** _


End file.
